IRISH MIST 
AND SUNSHINE 



P R 

^007 




A BOOK OF BALLADS 



ES B. BOLLARD 

(SLIAV^NA-MON) 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap Copyright Xo 

Shelf. .Ci;33X(^ 

no/ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



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PHOTO BY LYONDE, TORONTO 



I 



Irish Mist & Sunshine 

A "BOOK OF 'BALLADS 

By, 
JAMES S. 'DOLLARD 

iStU'v-n^-moti) 



With an introduction by 
William (TBrien, M. P. 



<^^ 




"BOSTON 

Richard G* badger & Company 

{Incorporated) 

Toronto: W. E. "Blake 
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Copyright 1900 by ' " \A 

"Richard G. Badger & Company 
(Incorporated) 

c4U lights ^eser'hed 

91407 



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L.ibr«ipy of Confiroa* 

Two Co»^s Reccwco 
DEC 201900 

SECOND COPY 

0«<(v«rgif to 

ORDER DIVISION 
JAN 10 1901 



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Dedication 

To my Brother 

The "Re^. WILLIAM "DOLLAKD 

Church of the Holy Rosary 

St. Stephen, N. B. 

a lo^er of Ireland and her literature, Hvhose 
teachings and encouragement ha<ve akvays 
been my^ greatest aid, this book of Irish averse 
is affectionately aedicated* 

The Author 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



CONTENTS. 

Preface by William O'Brien, M. P., 9 

Khyme of the Still Hunters, 15 

Ballad of the Coista Gann Kown, 27 

The Cruise of the Blue Maureen, 31 

The Bridge of Ormonde, 39 

When the Shadow's on the Heather, 41 

The Hanging of Myles Lehane, 44 

The Fairy Stolen, 54 

On Ke^mare Head, 57 

Cnoc-Maol-Dhoun, 60 

Lament for Gill Ceannaigh, 63 

Ballad of the Banshee, 66 

The Red Walls of Limerick, 69 

Lav--Laidhir Abu, 72 

The March of the North Ct)rk, 75 

The Pikemen, 79 

Song of the Little Villages, 83 

The Sweet River Suir, 87 



I 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



PREFACE. 

The Irish priest who is also a poet commands 
a range of emotions which are inaccessible and 
almost inconceivable to the decadent versi- 
fiers who have made the phrase "The Minor 
Poets" a term of contempt. There is, as in 
the great days of poetry, something of the di- 
vine in his calling. He is privileged, as is no 
other man, to enter the Holy of Holies of the 
Irish soul, which contains a virgin mine of 
passion, pathos, mirth and tragedy still await- 
ing the poet's alchemic touch. The surpris- 
ing thing is that so few Irish priests have yet 
turned to account for the enrichment of liter- 
ature the wealth of human interest and feel- 
ing which lies around the poet-priest in the 
wildest mountain parish. The brooks that 
babble around his daily path make music, and 
there is no cabin whose blue peat-smoke per- 
fumes the moors around his chapel that could 
not yield up its little lyric or its tale of deep 
and haunting pathos. Two Irish priests are 
at this moment setting the example of what 
men who combine literary ardour with a pas- 

9 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



sionate love of their people can do to give the 
world some glimpse of the charms of the true 
Irish temperament, horizon, and spirit-world. 
Father P. A. Sheehan's famous book, ^^My 
New Curate" gives perhaps the boldest as well 
as the truest picture ever painted of the Irish 
priest and of his people, in habit as they live. 
Father Dollard, the author of this book of ly- 
rics treats Irish life and sentiment through the 
more glowing medium of verse, and with the 
intensified passion of an exile from his native 
land. The grass-grown Irish villages, whose 
very names set his thoughts to music, appear 
to him through an enchanted atmosphere of 
recollections and regrets which gives a touch 
of consecration too often lost for those to 
whom the dull realities suggest no more than 
the yellow primrose did to Peter Bell. 

Here and there a verse may be as frankly 
unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves 
in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every 
line rings true to life and home and with the 
tone as heartmoving as the Angelus which 
holds Millet's peasants in its spell. Father 

lO V 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Dollard moreover possesses the quality which 
alone is wanting among the perfections of the 
"New Curate" namely, a wholehearted sym- 
pathy with the national yearning of his peo- 
ple. The simple explanation to me at least of 
the dismal fate of all the more or less Angli- 
fied "New Curate's" projects for conquering 
the inveterate stagnation of the village life 
around him is his failure to appreciate the as- 
pirations which are the people's terrestrial 
breath of life and the political conditions 
which set young men either tippling with Jem 
Deady, or learning the goose-step by moonlight 
under the ^ command of the village tailor. 
Father Dollard understands the tailor as well 
as the tippler and sees perfectly how a healthy 
national enthusiasm could regulate the ex- 
cesses of both and render Irish life as full of 
manly energy as it is of national charm and 
poetic sensibility. His lyrics have done very 
much indeed to discourage the unnatural He- 
gira from their native land which has tempted 
such myriads of the race from their wholesome 
mountain glens into the contamination of the 

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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



factories and the city slums in stranger lands. 
Nobody can well read his verses without feel- 
ing a breath of healthy air pass through the 
lungs, and a pleasant twitching at the heart 
such as effects one who in dreams in a distant 
clime, hears the sound of the chapel bell of his 
young days floating on his ears. Irish priests 
with the gifts of Father Sheehan and Father 
Dollard in their several kinds can do more to 
revive the power of the poet in its ancient 
Greek sense than the most misty-minded of the 
dilettanti who arrogate to themselves the cred- 
it of what is called the ^^Gaelic Revival/^ 
They are indeed makers and teachers, and their 
books leave us with cheerfuUer belief in our 
kind. 

WILLIAM O'BRIEN. 
Mallow Cottage, 

Westport, Ireland, 

September 12, 1900. 



12 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



RHYME OF THE STILL HUNTERS. 

(A Ballad of lar-Gonnaught.) 

It was the Ganger Regan Buie 

That pensive came to bask, 
One sunny day by Galway Bay, 

And sat on an empty cask. 

A Ganger old and stern was he, 

Grim foe to fresh poteen, 
Had sought the still o'er vale and hill ; 

Full steady his scent I ween. 

He lit his pipe and he puffed a puff, 

He spat on the salty tide. 
He gazed on the blue-black Connaught Hills 

Then drooped his head and sighed: 

"Now, Regan Buie, what sight dost see 
On the lonesome Connaught Hills?'' 

I see on Kylimore's swelling slopes 
The smoke of whiskey stills. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



I feel the peat spring to my feet, 

I scent the gorse clad waste, 
I long again for crag and glen 

Where mountain rivers raced. 

Full dim my sight that once was light, 

My bones are stiff and sore, 
But the Connaught Hills are calling now. 

And it's off I'd be once more. 

Oh, off again with the mountain men; 

I knew them one and all — 
Jack Joyce that kept round Knockaniss, 

And Teig at Balnagal; 

And Maelmorra Lynch, of Dalystown: 
But the (keenest rogue drew breath 

Was Dhiarmid Eoe, of Ballinasloe, 
Sly fox and game to death. 

'Twas many a day we went his way, 

Full sure to find his lair 
In the Boughta Hills where smoked his 'stills 

On the bounds of County Clare. 

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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



And many a night, a woeful sight, 

My men and I slunk home. 
While down from the shadowy mountain cliffs 

His mocking voice would come: — 

"Ho, Regan Buie you^re far to see - 

"My pearly mountain dew, 
"I'll send you a pint with never a stint, ' 

"First run and tested true. 

"But haste ypu now from the mountain tracks- 

"Go home to Galway Town 
"And say when there that I beat you fair 

"For all your name's renown." 

We wandered there when fields were fair 

And the furze a flame of gold : 
We sought again for the outlaw's den 

When winter winds blew cold. 

One day at last we followed fast ; 

The trail was straight and true; 
Close was the chase till a cliff's dark face 

Concealed him from our view. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



High and low for a hiding place 
We searched and searched again, 

Till we found a rift in the granite cliff, 
The door of Dhiarmid's den. 

Oh chill that cave as a churchyard vault; 

Our hearts had need be bold; 
Black was its mouth, but the womb within 

Was blacker a hundredfold. 

High and steep were the stony walls 

The roof was lost to view; 
A/ith shuffle and jar like thunder far 

Our footfalls echoed through. 

Spoke Jack Eyan, of Bansha town, 

Who feared not man or ghost; 
"I hear a tread on the road ahead;" 

And he followed the footsteps fast. 

On through the midnight mirk he went, 
With never a thought or care; 

But I heard the sound of a torrent's rush. 
And called to him, ^^Beware!'' 

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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



" ^Ware a trap or an open cleft;'' 

My warning came too late; 
A stumble, a cry that chilled our hearts, 

And quick we knew his fate. 

Thud and thud on the rocky shelves 

We heard his body go, 
And plunge at last in the raving flood 

A thousand feet below. 

Then flashed a light, and the cave was bright, 
Wet gleamed each dripping ledge; 

A mighty chasm our pathway barred- — 
Full close we viewed its edge. 

Heavy and deep in sullen sweep 

We heard the flood below, 
&at over its din a voice broke in 

The challenge of Dhiarmid Eoe: 

"Ho, Regan Buie on your bended knee 

"Pray God to save your soul ; 
"Your grave is a thousand fieet below 

"And never a bell to toll. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



^^Your grave is a thousand feet below — 

"Your children wait at home, 
"And your wife shall cry as the days go by 

*^For a husband ne'er to come. 

"But think on the home in Galway town 

"And think of child and wife 
"And make me a solemn promise here, 

*^our word shall buy your life. 

"For never again the mountain men 

"Your stealthy steps must fear. 
"The crag and glen for the mountain men; 

"The slope for the mountain deer? 

"No more the still you'll hunt and spill, 
"Or range the gorse lands high; 

^^our word will hold, 'gainst glory and 
gold;— 
"Who breaks our law must die!" 

Then stout his challenge I answered back. 

And spoke as man to man: 
^^y word won't go to Dhiarmid Eoe, 

"So work the worst you can. 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



^'VW hunt ye again by crag and glen 

(God care for child and wife:) 
^^But, ere I give ye the pledging word 

^^I'll part with them and life." 

Then Dhiarmid Eoe spoke grave and slow; 

"Your death-knelPs sounding now; 
"No hurrying ball your soul shall call, 

"Grim fear must make you bow. 

"Your grave is deep and your grave is high, 

"Its walls are soundless rock; 
"And never a soul shall hear you call, 

"Whilst I your sufferings mock." 

He spoke and the blessed light was gone, 

We groped in darkest gloom; 
And we heard but the foaming flood below. 

Sounding a knell of doom. 

Blind on our track we floundered back, 

Our folly to bemoan; 
We felt our way where the passage lay, 

And struck but the solid stone. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Searched we there in our heart's despair, 

But ever the same we found. 
Naught but the boiling depths below 

And the iron rock around. 

Oh, deep our grave by a hidden wave, 
And far from friends and home 

Where never a soul as long years roil 
To breathe a prayer would come. 

Then cried Ned Power of Parsontown, 

My friend in raid and fray: 
"We've held the front in many a brunt 

"But this is the end to-day. 

"Oh this is the end and worse to fear — 
"My curse on Dhiarmid Koe! 

"May all his flinty heart holds dear 
"Eise up to work him woe."— 

Heavy and slow the crawling hours, 

And each one seemed a day, 
In the deadly gloom of that living tomb 

Our live strength ebbed away. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



And when sweet visions crossed the brain 

Of homes we'd see no more^ 
We heard the drop of the reeking rock 

And the rumbling torrents roar. 

At last a light flashed full and bright; 

'Twas sweet as breaking day, 
And full in the glow stood Dhiarmid Roe 

And mocked us where we lay: 

"Ho, Eegan Buie, are the hounds at bay, 
"Brought up and trapped at last? 

"You've had your fun of many a run, 
"But your hunting days are past. 

"My curse on ye for stubborn fools! 

"Speak now the word I said; 
"The riftless rock is all around 

"And the rock roof overhead. 

"I'll send ye back to Galway Town 
"Where wife and children wait. 

"The time goes by and the end is nigh — 
"Speak now or speak too late." 

23 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Up spoke Ned Power of Parsontown : 

"Your pardon, Regan Buie: 
"The word your pride forever would hide 

"I'll speak for you and me. 

"Oh, never again by heath and glen 
(God pay thee, Dhiarmid Eoe!) 

"Were a whiskey still on every hill, 
"On the outlaw's track we'll go. 

"Were a whiskey still on every hill, 
"And a scent to make one reel, 

"Oh ! never again on the mountain men 
"Like blooded sleuths we'll steal. 

"Tho' many an outlaw roam unhanged, 

"Of high and low degree, 
"To Dhiarmid Eoe the palm must go, 

^TPhe Chief of rascals he." 

Then smiled that rascal, Dhiamid Roe, 

A wicked smile to see, 
And said: "This day is the day indeed, 

"And worth a world to me." 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



"The day that I baffled Regan Buie 
"And brought his boasting low, 

"A pint I'll brew of the mountain dew 
"To treat ye ere ye go." 

He bound our eyes and he led us on, 

And when we looked again, 
We saw the prize we had hunted long. 

The daring outlaw's den. 

Busy and neat, in all complete, 

Vat and worm and still. 
The mountaineer for many a year 

Had worked them all at will. 

Then Dhiarmid Roe: "Now ere ye go 
"Ye'U test my mountain dew." 

And loud he laughed as the potent draught 
Our shaking frames thrilled through. 

Oh, gay his laugh and merry his chaff. 
As he showed the homeward way, 

And "Regan Buie in the years to be 
"You'll never rue this day. 

25 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



"Oh, come again to the mountain men, 

"A Government spy no more: 
"Their friendship true I'll warrant you 

"And welcoming hearts galore." 

He said and we looked our last on him, 

Then turned our faces home; 
But every year to my cottage here 

A stealthy cask doth come. 

And writ in the ancient Gaelic tongue 

This legend you may see: 
"Sweet mountain dew, from Dhiarmid Roe, 

To the Ganger, Eegan Buie." 

Oh, mellow and true that mountain dew. 

Old heart and brain it thrills. 
I see as I saw in days of old, 

the wind-swept Connaught Hills; 

I feel the peat beneath my feet; 

I smell the heathery waste; 
I long again for the crag and glen 

where thundering torrents raced. 

26 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



BALLAD OF THE COISTA GANN KOWN.* 

This terrible phantom is heard passing from 
one graveyard to another^ at the midnight hour, 
hy the peasantry of the South of Ireland. 

"Black Mall Moran, dare you cross the lone 

mountain, 
A brand on your brow and a murder on your 

soul, 
Ah! what shall you say when the Lord calls 

upon you, 
For the red blood you squandered, and the life 

that you stole?'' 

"If the Lord called upon me I should reck not 

His summons, 
Though He flung down my body to deep pits 

of Hell; 
My strong hand has crushed out his life, whom 

I hated. 
My long-nourished vengeance I have sated it 

well.'' 

*Coista Gann Ceann — Literally, "Coach without heads/' 
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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



^^Black Mall Moran, 'tis a blasphemy spoken, 

Lone, lone the long road athwart the moun- 
tains brown — , 

Oh, 'ware you the graveyards whose portals 
now open 

And the dread, headless horses of the Coista 
Gann Kown." 

A curse in the midnight, and a loud laugh of 

scorn, 
A murderer plunges in the black jaws of night, 
The high gallows threatened and the pale 

breaking morn. 
Far out over ocean should see him in flight. 

But fearful his journey, the dreary winds af- 
fright him. 

Sobbing, hopeless sobbing amid the branches 
sere 

From the wood-sheltered cairn, where his vic- 
tim lies staring. 

The Banshee's awesome ullagon comes to his 
ear. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Ullagon! Ullagon! the wailing winds repeat 

it, 
Ullagon! Ullagon! the hollow hills reply! 
A rustle in the murky gloom,^ — the winging of 

a demon! 
A voice in the valley — 'tis a lost spirit's cry! 

Black Niall Moran, where now your bold 
vaunting 

Your brow's damp with terror. — God spare 
your guilty soul. 

Hark! o'er the din of your scared bosom's 
panting, 

Hear the Headless Horses, and the Dead- 
Coach's roll ! 

^^Black Niall Moran, if e'er you prayed to 

Heaven, 
Oh, pray unto the Saviour now for succor and 

for grace." 
They come, the demon horses — sound their 

tramp like hollow thunder, 
The lightnings of their flashing hoofs illume 

his ghastly face. 

29 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Ah! vainly doth he strive to pray — his pallid 

lips are frozen, 
God's Mother, break the wicked spell that 

binds his body now. 
His eyes must view the phantom coach, whose 

door is swinging open. 
Within — a reeking body — 'tis his victim's 

clotted brow! 

A shriek upon the midnight air, — a rumble in 

the darkness. 
Again the demon horses thro' the mountains 

speed away. 
Stark dead upon the roadside, in his eyes a 

nameless horror. 
They found Black Mall lying at the breaking 

of the day! 

Where four roads meet they buried him when 

even-shades were falling; 
But when night's dusky curtains on the 

shrinking hills drop down. 
They hear the Dead Coach rushing by, and 

cross their foreheads saying; 
"His soul must ride till judgment with the 

Coista Gann Kown." 
30 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE CRUISE OF THE BLUE MAUEEEN. 

It was the brave ship Blue Maureen 
Swept out from Queenstown Bay, 

Nor shortened sail to the rising gale 
That whipped the seas to spray. 

Her skipper was Rorke, of County Cork, 

Where daring men are bred; 
Dark scowling now he stood at the prow 

And scanned the skies ahead. 

A smuggler free and fierce was he 

As e'er foiled revenue brand; 
No storm could daunt him on the sea, 

And he feared no law on land. 

He wore away to the wild son'- west. 

He flew as the swallow flies. 
Past Seven Heads, and the Galleys' crest 

To where the Three Stags rise. 



31 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



He entered a lonely cove at last, 
And a Spanish ship lay there; 

The Blue Maureen they loaded clean 
With cargo rich and rare. 

And none too quick was done the trick 

For as he sheered away 
A gun-boat cleared the ocean swell 

And stuck its nose in the bay. 

Said Eorke, "The revenue-man's not built 

Can fool a fox like me" — 
He found a gate thro' a hidden strait, 

And danced on the open sea. 

"Now Eevenue-man, it's catch who can" 
Said Korke, "an' we've slipped ye well. 

Ho, now for a chase and a clipping race 
To harbor or to hell." 

The storm-gust shook the Blue Maureen 

And blew her into the west 
Like thistle down in the summer breeze 

From Brown Knocmeldom's crest. 



3 



32 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The skipper laughed to his flying craft, 

No revenue boat was seen — 
"And would they match their smoky hulks 

To sail with the Blue Maureen?'' 

"Now lads to wind with her a bit 

We'll head for port again, 
See yonder cloud like a dead man's shroud. 

It carries a hurricane." 

They looked and the erstwhile smiling south 
Grew dark — as dark as midnight. 

Dusky and dun became the sun 
And baleful was his light. 

Black and blacker the skies became 
Till a white bolt crashed o'erhead, 

And out of the pall came a thunder call 
Like the last trump of the dead. 

"Ho ! down the sails — 'ware foul or slip ! 

And watch ye well the south 
We've saved our ship from the bailiflf's grip 

But we've run in the devil's mouth!" 

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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



"A curse on my eyes that see no sign, 

A curse on the coming blast, 
T'will carry us bare to God knows where 

Nor leave us a rag to mast." 

He spoke, and the hissing hurricane 

Drove in to show him true; 
It caught the ship in a gusty grip 

And blind to the north she flew. 

Oh, blind she flew till the pallid crew 
For fear could scarce draw breath; 

Said Rorke, ^^this drift is steady and swift 
And the end of it all is death.'' 

"The end is death, be it long or short. 

Not mine the skill to know, 
Or grinding shock on a hidden rock 

Or flung on a white ice-floe." 

Then northward drove the Blue Maureen, 

Still north a day and night, 
With never a lift nor once a shift 

The hurricane proved its might. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The toppling combers swept her deck, 
Hard lashed the helm- wheel strained, 

The bending mast in the ruthless blast, 
Like tortured soul complained. 

Said Eorke: "An angry God's above, 
And the devil is 'neath our keel, 

'Tis late in the day for me to pray. 
And now I may not kneel.'' 

"For God would scorn my puling now. 

And I may spare my breath; 
See yon black wall ! Ho ! shipmates all ! 

Tis there — the end — and death!" 

The Blue Maureen swung wide and high. 

And over the yawning waves 
A rock-bound coast the vision crossed. 

They saw their waiting graves. 

Black Korke clung fast by the shaking mast. 

When sudden he was aware 
A shape of fear was standing near — 

No mortal man stood there. 



35 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Steady and stark the Stranger stood, 
Nor recked the reeling ship; 

Then: ^^Dermot Eorke, you have done 
work 
And sailed your last sea-trip." 



your 



"Oast is the line, and the prize is mine 

So now I claim your soul." 
The skipper he looked to the scowling rocks, 

And heard the breakers roll. 



"Oh life is sweet with hell to meet," 
The skipper said with a sigh. 

"I'll sell my soul when seven years roll 
If now you pass me by." 

"Your soul is mine," said the demon then, 

"When e'er I will to take, 
But now you'll sell your child as well. 

And saved be for her sake. 

"Her soul is bright with a wondrous light 
(God's grace within her grew) 

I'll take that soul when seven years roll, 
And till that time spare you." 
36 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Burst from the skipper a cry of fear; 

"What! take my child?" he said, 
"Not for the earth and all 'tis worth 

I'd sell a hair of her head." 

"Oh, Lord, that rules the wind, and stirs 
The deep seas with Thy breath. 

In this dread hour show forth Thy power — 
Save us from sin and death!" 

The sinner prayed — his lips were stirred 

By grace of his own child's prayer; 
At a distant shrine her call was heard, 
God crowned her pleading there. 

Ah I none may claim Christ's aid in vain; 

And now a child's weak moan 
Pierces the sky and there on high 

Sweet mercy claims its own. 

Great is Thy saving Name, O Christ! 

Afar the Tempter flies, 
God's holy peace falls o'er the seas. 

The storm-blast moaning dies! 



37 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



By Queenstown Bay, on the sand-bars gray, 

Beached high a boat is seen ; 
She sails no more where deep seas roar, 

'Tis the brave ship Blue Maureen. 

No more she'll breast the billow's crest 

On perilous cruise out-bound, 
All peaceful now is the skipper's brow, 

God's friendship he hath found. 

Death's call he waits, at the harbor gates. 

With hope God's port to see; 
May skies be fair on his voyage there. 

And Christ his Pilot be! 



38 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE BRIDGE OF ORMONDE. 

(A Ballad of Kilkenny). 

Ormonde's castle stones are high 
Ormonde's brazen gates are grand 

Rich is the Lord of Ormond, why 
Coveted he my cot and land? 

Steady and clear the river flows 

Under the Bridge of Ormonde 
Out with the flood my spirit goes 

Far from the shades of Ormond 
I see the home was once mine own 
Desolate now its cold hearth-stone 
Barren the fields and weed-o'er-grown 

Stamped with the curse of Ormonde. 

"Rent or the land" ! they said that day 
And drove us out on the bleak highway 
I cannot rest and I cannot pray 
Cursing the greed of Ormonde. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Proudly above Kilkenny town 

Towers the walls of Ormonde 
I wander up and I wander down 

Over the Bridge of Ormonde. 
My heart is broken, my hopes are dead 
No roof to shelter a hoary head 
But he lies soft on a down bed 

Safe in the palace of Ormonde! 

The tyrant! — Safe! Ah that dread desire 

My soul is seethed in hellish fire ! 

God rescue me from these whispers dire! 

Close by the gates of Ormonde. 
Peaceful and still the waters flow 

Under the Bridge of Ormonde 
Would that my tortured breast were so 

Here by the hall of Ormonde. 

Mother of God! (the sweet words bless) 
Hinder my hand from wickedness 
Aid! oh aid me in dark distress 
Lone on the Bridge of Ormonde. 



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Irish Mist and Sunshine 



WHEN THE SHADOWS ON THE 
HEATHER. 

An Irish Christmas Ballad. 

Slipping down the Curlew mountains to th'i 

early Christmas Mass, 
When the shadow's of the heather and the 

rime is on the grass — 
Want may chill our highland cottage; troubles 

bide with us alway. 
But the Saviour makes us happy on his holy 

Christmas Day. 

I must wake my dear ones early on this morn 
of peace and joy, 

Little pet-lamb, pretty Norah, sturdy Neil, my 
noble boy. 

When the hearth is clean and cosy and the 
dancing flames are gay. 

And the kettle croons a welcome to the com- 
ing Christmas day. 



41 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



I>arkness lingers on the valley and the fairy- 
haunted glen, 

Eastward now the break of morning brings 
the peace of God to men. 

Near the mountain-rim, — first jewel of the 
Christ-Child's diadem, 

Burns a star of radiant beauty like the Star of 
Bethlehem. 

Wake ye now, my sleeping treasures, wake ye 

now, your mother's joy, 
Pretty Norah, drowsy lambkin, blue-eyed Neil, 

my laughing boy — 
For the shadow's on the heather, and the rime 

is on the grass, 
And the angels hurry earthward to the early 

Christmas Mass. 

See above you ivied abbey, where God's ser- 
vants prayed of old. 

Fiery pillars in the heavens — bars of silver, 
shafts of gold — 

Swing the gates of glory open, shining souls 
unnumbered pass. 

Let us hurry dov/n to meet them at the early 
Christmas Mass. 
42 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Down the mountain, up the valley, from the 

riverside and glen 
Throng the cheery-chatting people, stately 

women, stalwart men; 
Guard, oh, guard them, God of Erin! bitter 

sorrow theirs, alas! 
Many a heart shall bleed in exile ere another 

Christmas Mass. 

Lift thy drooping face, my Erin, God has 

heard thy bitter moan, 
Tho' His hand rest heavy on thee, 'tis to make 

thee more His own. 
Faith has died where nations flourished, — 

earthy gain His gifts surpass 
When he greets His gathered people at the 

early Christmas Mass. 



43 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE HANGING OF MYLES LEHANE. 

The Baron of Graine and Cavan, his heart was 

hard and cold, 
He loved but his dogs and hunters — his god 

was greed of gold. 
Said he: "¥ov my pride and pleasure I'll have 

those broad lands free, 
And he drove his serfs to the workhouse, or 

scourged them o'er the sea. 
But Myles Lehane of Cashel went up to the 

Baron's door. 
His heart like lead and bowed his head, — he 

never had begged before. 
Said he, ^^f or your honor's payment long years 

I've drudged like a beast, 
'Twill break my heart from the land to part, 

but leave us the house at least. 
For Nora, my wife, is dying, — the child is gone 

before, 
'Twas fever killed our darling, so the neigh- 
bors come no more." 



44 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Then the Baron swore a soianding oath, and 

ordered the ^^dog'' away, 
And back thro' the rain went Myles Lehane 

to his woful house that day. 

Next morning's sun rose grim and dun, and in 

thro' the valley's gate, 
Like a river red the "Death Brigade" defiled 

in martial state. 
Oh, bold and gay they looked that day, the 

Eoyal British Horse, 
But they did a work would shame a Turk that 

spares not the senseless corse. 
Their sabres clanked full gallantly, their hoof- 
beat echoed plain, 
Till they came to halt with never a fault by 

the house of Myles Lehane, 
And there they formed a cordon, all strict to 

the rules of war. 
(Would they do so well to the Arab yell on 

Afric sands afar?) 



45 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Within his straw roofed cottage, his own no 
longer now, 

Sat Myles Lehane deep-bowed in pain, cold 
fear-drops on his brow, 

Dread were the thoughts he wrestled, but nev- 
er uttered a sound. 

The hand of God lay heavy on him — the wrath 
of men around. 

His sick wife lay beside him, her life-tide ebb- 
ing fast. 

And he prayed that ere the troops came there 
her spirit might have passed. 

The damp, death-reek was on her cheek, the 
Priest was kneeling by. 

But she heard outside the soldiers' stride, and 
pitiful was her cry: 

"Oh, wirray wirra* the bitter day! and have I 
lived so long, 

And must I lie by the road to die, that never 
did man wrong! 

Oh, Myles, my heart's light ever, come near 
and hold my hand, 

'Twas gladsome May our wedding day and 
sunshine filled the land; 

* Wirra, (lit.) Oh, Mary, Mary! 
46 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The birds sang gay our wedding day, the bend- 
ing skies were blue, 
And you were there my king of men, and I was 

fair to you. 
Our joys and our heavy sorrows we shared 

them side by side. 
When the crops and cattle prospered — when 

the son of our bosoms died; 
But now when your blackest trouble is falling 

upon your head, 
T must leave you, Myles, my husband, to be 

with the griefless dead. 
Yet hear me, our God is mercy, — He judges 

the deeds of men; 
I'll pray at His throne for you, my own, until 

we meet again." 

Bang on the door a gun-butt — hurtled a hoarse 

command : 
"Now, Myles Lehane, in the Queen's high 

name, give up your house and land." 



47 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The hinges burst like rot-wood, and in the 
bailiffs strode, 

"Now out with them, bag and baggage, to beg 
their rent on the road!" 

The priest stood up from the bedside, his tear- 
filled eyes flashed fire — 

"Oh, men, would ye shame your manhood to 
do such deed for hire, 

The wild beast chased and wounded may die 
at last in his lair. 

And would ye refuse like mercy to God's own 
image there?" 

Then spoke his lordship's agent, — a fiend in- 
carnate he, — 

"You'll leave the house my prating priest, and 
curse her! so shall she. 

No! fetch me the oil-can, hearties — we'll have 
a bonfire good. 

And crack our joke while the rats we smoke, 
as loyal subjects should." 



48 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



They bore her out on the roadside, they laid 

her down to die, 
The flames from the burning cottage leaped 

fiercely to the sky. 
But swifter on to the heavens the soul of a 

woman went. 
The angels found her a dwelling-place, and 

never a word of rent. 

II. ■ 

'Tis night in the gloomy valley, 'tis night on 

the hillside drear. 
Hark! heard ye a gunshot sounding — heard ye 

a shriek of fear? 
A murderer flies in terror, his deed was done 

too well — 
The Baron of Graine and Cavan, his soul is 

deep in hell! 
A bullet has found its billet out there on thr 

lonesome moor, 
No more he'll grind, in his anger blind, the 

faces of God's poor. 



49 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



And out on the widening ocean a swift ship 

flies e'en now 
The winds blow fair, yet one they bear, with 

Cain-brand on his brow. 

Now flash ye the news of horror to every land 

and clime, 
And mark the race with deep disgrace whose 

sons have wrought such crime! 
What tho' in peaceful England a thousand 

worse befall, 
The Baron great had wealth and state and 

lived in princely hall, 
But mind! no word of the woman — she died by 

deed of law. 
We rule them strong, we may do wrong, but, 

look ye, find no flaw. 
And find us a ready victim, it boots not whom 

nor how, 
The outraged State must vindicate her injured 

Justice now. 



50 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



They found ere long a victim — the proofs, they 

said were plain — 
And Dublin's deep-walled dungeons soon 

closed on Myles Lehane. 
Like Him of old, the Scourged One, he made 

no moan or cry; 
They dragged him out in the blaze of noon and 

told him he must die. 
"Now Myles Lehane, in your Maker's name, 

what word have you to say 
With latest breath to the doom of death that 

falls on you today?" 

The peasant knelt to Heaven, his hair gleamed 

white to the sun, 
^^My Lord, of the crime I'm guiltless; but 

God's high will be done! 
I fear not to meet my Saviour — He promised 

the wronged redress; 
The death I die is shameful, my shame than 

His far less. 



51 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Better to die and end it than live a trampled 

slave 
With never a breath of freedom — no hope but 

the waiting grave. 

The precious gold we drudge for buys feast 

for a glutton's hall; 
Better than life of torture, be robbed at once 

of all." 
Ah! Myles Lehane, of Gashel, dost hear thy 

death-bell toll? 
The grim black flag they've hoisted — Christ'^ 

mercy on thy soul! 
The guards drag forth their victim, the hang- 
man stands in wait. 
Like watchers by a death-bed, the people pray 

at the gate. 
The black mask veils his vision — he looked his 

last on the sun, 
Now God and the Virgin aid him — the awful 

doom is done! 



5^ 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Thro' the grimy streets of Dublin the crowds 

creep shuddering home, 
And down from the Wicklow summits the 

gusty rain-blasts come. 
They weep through the darkened city to wash 

its guilt away. 
They tell to the sullen Irish Sea a tale of 

shame today. 

I saw a singer of ballads, he sang a song in 

the' street. 
In the heart of Dublin City, 'mid bustle and 

hurry of feet. 
Men's cheeks flushed hot to hear him, and 

women's went white with pain — 
I've tried to sing you the song I heard — The 

Hanging of Myles Lehane. 



53 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE FAIEY-STOLEN. 

An Irish Ballad, 

Mother dear, my mother, they have stolen me 
away 

And I miss you mother darling all the live- 
long day 

When the dreamy sun is shining, and the 
fleecy clouds sail by. 

You are weeping for me, mother, and I hear 
your bitter cry. 

I wandered by the fairy Rath, I wandered all 
alone. 

I played, nor thought of danger, by the 
haunted Ogam Stone 

Till the fairies from Knocsheela came and car- 
ried me away 

Where they live within the mountain in their 
palaces of clay. 



54 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Mother dear^ oh mother, they have crowned 
me Fairy Queen, 

They have robed me in a vesture of the sun- 
set's wondrous sheen, 

They have dowered me with treasure that 
their fairy castles hold. 

But more precious to me mother your sweet 
kiss than shining gold. 

When the sun is on the mountain, and the 

clou(J shades come and go 
And drowsy brooklets downward 'neath the 

nodding hazels flow, 
When the bee is in the fox-glove, and in covert 

hides the hare. 
Oh, look upon the mountain then, for mother, 

I am there. 

But when the night has fallen and the mystic 
moonlight comes, 

And darkly on the valley's breast the grey- 
walled castle looms. 

Oh then along the river's banks we're skip- 
ping near and far 

Till dawn with spears of silver drives away 
the Morning Star. 
55 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



'Twas but yesternight oh mother that we 

passed the cottage by 
Ah, my eager heart beat heavily to know that 

you were nigh. 
I saw the tears you shed for me, I heard your 

troubled prayer, 
But the fairy throng bore swift along, I 

could not linger there. 

Mother dear, my mother, I am dying day by 
day, 

They may hold my lifeless body, but my spir- 
it will not stay. 

It will seek you mother darling thro' the sun- 
shine or the rain. 

And the fairies of the mountain cannot steal 
your child again. 



56 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



ON KENMAEE HEAD. 

An Irish Ballad, 

Sweet Mother of the Crucified 

Be nigh to aid me now. 
My old' eyes view the sad gray sea 

Beyond the cliff's high brow; 
The wide, gray sea that sullenly 

Beats on the black rocks bare, 
The while I moan, bereft and lone, 

On tlie Head of Old Kenmare. 

Oh bitter day I lost for aye 

The dear ones of my soul! 
And cruel sea! — twixt them and me 

How broad and bleak you roll! 
Two graves are lying far away 

With none to kneel in pray'r — 
And I, their mother, weeping here 

On the Head of Old Kenmare. 



57 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



My Owen left our cabin door 

A dreary winter day, 
"¥\i\\ quick I'll send ye gold galore 

The heavy rent to pay.'' 
Mo nuar! 'twas the killing word 

They wrote from over there, — 
"He's dying and his love he sends 

To those in Old Kenmare." 

Then Mary, treasure of my life — 

How sweet her modest grace! 
My timid lamb, she left me too 

The hard world-winds to face. 
Poor child, her heart was broken soon 

With all a strange land's care; 
They laid her by her brother's side 

Far, far from Old Kenmare. 

Now ever to my anguished soul 

Their dying voices reach, 
I hear them in the waves that roll 

And sob along the beach. 



58 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



I listen and the crooning winds 
Those last love-whispers bear 

To me, their mother, waiting lone 
On the Head of Old Kenmare. 

Sweet Mother of the Crucified, 

Thy woes were greater far, 
To thee an earthly mother prays 

Who art the Ocean's Star. 
Thou standing by the awful Cross, 

Oh strengthen me to bear 
My sorrow swelling like the sea 

By the Head of Old Kenmare. 



59 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



CNOC-MAOL-DHOUN.* 

Ah! sweet is Avondhuv that flows by lordly 

Cappoquin 
And sighing low the south winds blow across 

the Vale of Glin, 
God's blessings on our Irish land, as well in 

field and town, 
But give me strength and let me stand on 

Cnoe-Maol-Dhoun. 

Now fairy hands are finding me and friendly 

sprites are they, 
Oh, fairy hands are binding me, "we'll bear 

you up," they say; 
"Come up where starry heather-fiowers and 

golden gorse enerown 
The monarch of all fairy-mounds, our Cnoc- 

Maol Dhoun." 

* The brown Smooth Hill. — In County Waterford, Ire- 
land. 



60 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



I yield me to their magic spell, its power is not 

gain-said, 
We leave at once the lowly dell, and seek the 

mountain's head, 
I feel the breeze of ocean now, I smell the 

fraoich brown, 
And cooled the fever of my brow on Cnoc- 

Maol-Dhoun. 

Afar the shining Suir leaps Ardflnan's wood- 
lands o'er. 

Afar the tliundrous billow sweeps thine echo- 
ing wall Ardmore; 

On sunny hill and misty vale my vision ranges 
down. 

And fancy teems with olden dreams, on Cnoc- 
Maol-Dhoun. 

On yonder plain, in war-array, I see the hosts 

of Finn, 
And mighty chiefs of ancient day, — I hear 

their arms' din; 
Famed Oisin of the Yellow Locks and Conan 

of Renown, 
Their shadows rise before mine eyes, on Cnoc- 

Maol-Dhoun. 

6i 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Pass Conall and the Eed Branch Knights, — 

and Maev, to conflict dire, 
See great Cuculain, "Lord of Fights" his spear 

a flame of fire. 
A moment through the shifting mist sad Deir- 

dre's face is shown. 
Kind fairies grant the sight ye list, on Cnoc- 

Maol-Dhoun. 

Ah! poor in sordid wealth of gold, but rich is 
Erin still 

In magic spell and legend old, that cling to 
heath and hill. 

Dearer than gold a thousand fold, God's beau- 
ties rare that crown, 

The streams that flow thy heights below old 
Cnoc-Maol-Dhoun. 



62 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



LAMENT FOR GILL CEANNAIGH. 

It is my bitter sorrow that the heavy-rolling 

main 
Betwixt me and the land I love up-swells to 

mock my pain; 
A weary load is on me that the Spring is here 

again — 
And I far away from Kilkenny. 

This cheerless exile, day by day, more griev- 
ously I rue, 

And foreign skies grow dark to me recalling 
skies of blue. 

Fade out, ye stretching city streets, and smile 
the fields I knew^ 
In the gold-misty vales of Kilkenny. 



63 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



On Suir's banks the winds of March awake the 

daffodil — 
In sprouting groves by Clodagh's stream the 

cuckoo's numbers thrill, 
The saucy, sunny primroses in hollow and on 

hill 
Are scenting the gale of Kilkenny. 

Oh ye that pass o'er heath and grass, all in the 

morning dawn. 
The heights to breast, your brows caressed 

with breeze from Sliav-na-mon ; 
Till Suir shines in golden light, and every 

shadow's gone, 
Bless God that your home's in Kilkenny. 

Along the winding country ways the haw- 
thorn hedge is white. 
The red breast from his mossy nest doth watch 

you out of sight; 
Oh, sweet the day in balmy May, and soft the 
dewy night 
That falls o'er my home in Kilkenny. 



64 



Irish Mist ana Sunshine 



To list the ploughman's cheery voice, — the 

houchaVs whistle call, 
To hear the pure faced cailins sing that guide 

the cows to stall; 
To watch the stalwart hurlers leap and strike 

the bounding ball, 
Mo lihron that I'm far from Kilkenny. 

There is a h,eather-belted hill lifts high its 
summit bare — 

And up its sides the pleasant fields are climb- 
ing everywhere; 

If I'd my way, 'tis there today I'd breathe the 
blessed air, 
And greet my old friends in Kilkenny. 

Erin, call thy scattered sons, and bid them 

all unite — 
"To long in alien wars ye bleed — unblest that 

fruitless fight, 
Arise again, unconquered men, do battle for 

the right, 
And free the fair homes of Kilkenny." 

65 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



BALLAD OF THE BANSHEE. 

Back thro' the hill I hurried home 
Ever? my boding soul would say 

"Mother and sister bid thee come 
Long, too long has been thy stay/' 

Stars shone out, but the moon was pale 
Touched by a black cloud's ragged rim 

Sudden I heard the Banshee's wail 
Where Malmor's war-tower rises grim. 

Quickly I strode across the slope 
Passed the grove and the Fairy Mound 

(Gloomy the moat where blind owls mope) 
Scarcely breathing, I glanced around. 



66 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Mother of mercy! there she sat 

A woman clad in a snow-white shroud 

Streamed her hair to the damp moss-mat 
White the face on her bosom bowed. 

^^Spirit of Woe/' I eager cried, 

^^Tell me none that I love has gone," 

"Cold is the grave" : m j accents died — 
The Banshee lifted her face so wan. 

Pale and wkn as the waning moon 
Seen when the sun-spears herald dawn 

Ceased all sudden her dreary croon 
Full on my own her wild eyes shone. 

Burned and seared my inmost soul 
(When shall sorrow depart from me?) 

Black- winged terror upon me stole 
Blindly gaping, I turned to flee. 



67 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Back by the grove and haunted mound 
O'er the lone road I know not how 

Hearkened afar my baying hound 
Home at last at the low hilPs brow. 

Lone the cottage — the door flung wide 
Four lights burned — oh sight of dread! 

Breathing a prayer, I rushed inside, 
^^Mercy, God!" 'twas my mother, dead! 

Dead and white as the fallen leaf 
(Kneeling my sister prayed near by) 

Wild as I wrestled with my grief 
Far and faint came the Banshee's cry. 



68 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE RED WALLS OF LIMERICK. 

A Brigade Ballad, 

There's bitter woe in Erin since the Wild 
Geese sailed away, 

The clairseach * sobs with sorrow now, that 
erst rang loud and gay; 

Unheard the tramp of Sarsfield's Horse and 
D'Usson's bugle-bray. 
Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the lost pride of Limer- 
ick! 

The treaty is broken and our wrongs are un- 
redressed, 

A murdered peasant's hanging high on yon- 
der mountain crest; 

See there a starving mother, with a dead child 
to her breast. 
Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the black woes of Lim- 
erick! 

* Clairseach — the harp. 



69 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Go Dhia, but these deathly days hang like a 
funeral pall 

Mine eyes have seen the battle break 'gainst 
belching fort and wall; 

Dutch William's stormers stagger back from 
shearing blade and ball. 
Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the Red Walls of Lim- 
erick ! 

How leaped our hearts when Lucan's Horse 
swept by at thunderous pace! 

Hew cheered we Dillon's dancing plume, and 
Berwick's martial grace! 

Ah ! days indeed ! Our tender maids feared not 
grim death to face, 
Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the lone homes of Lim- 
erick! 

But Sarsfield and his "Slashers" all have 

sailed away to France, 
On Europe's shaking battle-fields their fiery 

chargers prance. 
And Erin — hapless Erin, now has not one 
guarding lance. 
Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the dead hopes of Lim- 
erick! 

70 



I 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Broad Shannon's eddying waters hurry out- 
ward to the sea, 

A hundred exile-bearing ships adown its wide 
gate flee! 

Alone I wait the shadows of the night that is 
to be. 
Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the lost cause of Limer- 
ick! 



71 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



LAV-LAIDHIR ABU. 

C^ About this time a great disgrace fell upon the 
noble family of O^Brien; for the chieftain Mur- 
rough, a man brave beyond compare, and of come- 
ly parts, went over to the English with part of Ms 
clan, and waged war without mercy against his 
kinsmen and former friends. 80 terrible in sooth 
were his devastations that he thereafter was 
known to the Irish as ^Murrough the Burner.^ "j 
Old Chronicler. 

My head is bowed, and my heart is breaking, 

My Clair seach dumb for my country's shame, 
This burden black from my spirit shaking, 
I'll strike again to an ancient name. 
LaV'Laidhir Abu! 
That shout thrilled many a field of fame, 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 



72 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



A bard am I of a house dishonored; 

A song unsaddened no longer mine; 
Loud rang my harp amid hosts embannered, 
When Erin's shield was the race of Brian. 
LaV'Laidhir Abu! 
Lord God, look down on a princely line, 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 

Flash forth, Kincora, thy halls of glory, 

Come, famed Clontarf, to my sad soul's 
si^ht, 
A thousand fields where in battle gory 

The Strong Hand wrestled for Erin's right. 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
Thrice cursed be he that its strength would 
blight, 

LaV'Laidhir Abu! 

Accursed be he upon plain and mountain. 

Accursed a^ain upon shore and wave, 
Shame's hot breath poison his heart's life- 
fountain. 
Shallow and red his polluted grave. 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
A haughty house, has it borne a slave? 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
73 



Irish Mist ana Sunshine 



Murrough the Burner! from Croome to Con- 
naught 
I see the smoke of your conquests rise; 
Maddened with slaughter, your heme and 6on- 
nagM 
Affright out valleys with murderous cries. 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
The dumb beasts e'en from their presence flies, 

Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
Green bosomed Thomond, your bloom is faded. 

Proud CashePs portals your pride is fled, 
Grim Murrough's butchers, by Satan aided, 
Have made wide Desmond a house of dead. 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
But rise, ye clans to a vengeance dread! 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 

Afar I hearken the banshee calling 

Fierce Thommond's chief to his bloody 
tomb — 
Murrough the Burner, the bolt is falling, 
Thy gibbering victims around thee loom. 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
Meet for a traitor a traitor's doom, 
Lav-Laidhir Abu! 

74 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE MAECH OF THE ^^NOKTH CORK/' 

A Ballad of '98. 

The summer morn was breaking in the valley 

of the Suir, 
The first faint sunbeams quivered on the river 

running pure, 
When out from Carrick's olden walls a gay 

battalion strode, 
And twice five hundred bayonets filed down 

the dusty road. 

Black Horsley of Dunmanaway, he faced his 

men and said; 
"Our journey's goal is Wexford Town, our 

road lies straight ahead; 
There's booty there, and fame to win for every 

yeoman true; 
My faith! we'll teach the rebel hordes what 

royal swords can do!" 



75 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



On marched the North Cork Regiment, a gal- 
land sight to see; 

Their tall plumes fluttered in the breeze, their 
bugles brayed with glee; 

Past fair Mooncoin, past Granagh's tower, 
past ancient Waterford, 

And soon o'er Wexford's war-scarred fields 
their crimson banner soared. 

What fires are those that fiash on high? What 
shrieks that pierce the air? 

'Tis not the flame of cannon's mouth, or battle- 
trumpet's blare. 

Oh Wexford! 'tis thy roofs that blaze, and 
'tis thy women's cry; 

Now up, and grasp thy gory pike the ven- 
geance hour is nigh! 

The mornings light was glancing bright on 

many a gliding rill. 
The rising sun was burnishing the slopes of 

Culart Hill; 



76 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



From storied Wexford's guarded gate a train 

of yeomen passed — 
They little dreamed the march that day was 

fated for their last. 

At noon on Culart's moss-clad height loud 

rang the musketry 
And Wexford flung upon the foe her peasant 

chivalry, 
Short shrift the ruffian spoilers found when 

gleamed the dreaded pike, 
For vengeance nerved the patriot's arm and 

pointed where to strike. 

Old Enniscorthy next saw fall the "rebel's'' 
blow of hate, 

When fled the fear-struck yeomanry from fa- 
mous Duffry Gate; 

They fell as fall the ripened crops when tem- 
pest lashed them down, 

And few and pale the fugitives that entered 
Wexford Town. 



77 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Such was the fate well-merited befell that 

fiendish crew 
The ravishers of peaceful homes, the butchers 

of Carnew. 
Light, Wexford, light thy triumph fires, till 

hill and valley glow 
And bless thy peasant-warriors that never 

feared a foe! 

The patriot flames they kindled then have 

never since grown cold, 
Today in Bargy and Idrone are hearts that 

beat as bold, 
And tho' the "Boys of Wexford" failed on fat- 

al Vinegar Hill, 
"They're ready for another fight and love their 

country still." 



78 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE PIKEMEN. 

A Ballad of '98. 

The troops are out in Bargy and the yeomen 

in Idrone, 
The pitch-caps and the gory lash make guilt- 
less victims groan. 
Red murder stalks the villages, and high the 

roof trees flame, 
Arise ye, meu of Wexford now, or live in last- 
ing shame! 
Ye pikemen, bold pikemen, 
Old Wexford calls her pikemen. 
See, at her call, they muster all, 
For vengeance now, grim pikemen! 

The plough they leave by Slaney's banks, the 

scythe in soft Imayle, 
And out through famous ScoUagh gap, they 

surge like autumn gale. 



7^ 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



% 



Bold hearts are there from Ballaghkeen anrt 

wooded Shilmaliere. 
Sends many a stalwart rifleman to fill the foe 
with fear. 
The pikemen, the pikemen, 
The stormy-cheering pikemen, 
Broad Barrow's flood shall flow with 

blood, 
Eush in, ye rebel pikemen! 

Above on sunny Oamarus the fraioc/i-blossoms 

blow. 
Grim massacre and pillage fright the fertile 

vales below. 
Bough Corrigrew is basking in the scented 

summer gale, 
In Gorey at the mountain-foot is heard the 
maiden^s wail. 
Te pikemen, brave pikemen. 
Ha! tarry not, ye pikemen! 
Tis yours to quell that spawn of hell. 
For hearths and homes, ye pikemen! 



80 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The morning sun is burnishing the slopes of 

Culart Hill. 
His low beam strikes on serried pikes, a sight 

the soul to thrill. 
Like flame athwart the ripened fields, from. 

Wexford's guarded gate 
The "red North Cork" — their life-sands run- 
march out to meet their fate. 
The pikemen, the pikemen, 
The dread, resistless pikemen, 
Grim harvest now, on Oulart's brow 
They reap, the rebel pikemen. 

High noon in Enniscorthy — from the far- 
famed DufEry Gate 
The tyrant's smoking cannon hurl their mes- 
sengers of hate. 
In vain, in vain, his bullets gain, and thunder 

loud the guns. 
Those ranks accursed, the pikemen burst — 
old Wexford's dashing sons! 
The pikemen, the pikemen, 
They staggered from the pikemen. 
Their black hearts feel 
The patriot steel. 
The vengeance of thf^ pikomon. 
81 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The "ancient Briton's" went to death on Tub- 

berneering's Plain^ 
The Irish green at Taghmon waved o'er many 

a foeman slain, 
Oh, for an Owen Roe again to lead with Span- 
ish steel! 
From Wexford's bristling vanguard then, op- 
pression's ranks should reel. 
The pikemen, the pikemen, 
A leader for the pikemen, 
They heard with fear, your stormy 

cheer 
Ye mocked at death, fierce pikemen! 

'Tis true, alas, ye fought, and failed when 

stubborn Ross ran red. 
The fatal slope of Vinegar Hill was matted 

with your dead. 
Unconquered souls! your fame shall live 

while runs the rapid Nore, 
All honor, deathless pikemen to your green 
graves evermore! 
The pikemen, the pikemen, 
When Erin needs her pikemen, 
God send her then heroic men 
Like Wexford's fearless pikemen. 
82 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



SONG OF THE LITTLE VILLAGES.* 

The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish 

glynns 
Down among the wheat-fields, — up amid the 

whins, 
The little white walled villages crowding close 

together, 
Clinging to the Old Sod in spite of wind and 
weather: 
Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle, 
Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the Banks ol 

Foyle, 
Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballysa- 

dare, 
Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare. 

*A11 the names are genuine. 



83 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



The cosy little villages that shelter from the 

mist, 
Where the great West Walls by ocean-spray 

are kissed; 
The happy little villages that cuddle in the sun 
When blackberries ripen and the harvest worji 
is done. 
Corrymeela, Croaghnakeela, Clogher, Cahir- 

civeen, 
Cappaharoe, Carrigaloe, Cashel and Ooo- 

sheen, 
Castlefinn and Carrigtohill, Crumlin, Clara, 

Clane, 
Carrigaholt, Carrigaline, Cloghjordan and 
Coolrain. 

The dreamy little villages, where by the fire at 

night, 
Old Shanachies with ghostly tale the boldest 

hearts affright; 
The crooning of the wind-blast is the wailing 

Banshee's cry, 
And when the silver hazels stir they say the 

fairies sigh. 



84 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



Kilfenora, Kilfinnane, Kinnity, Killylea, 
Kilmoganny, Kiltamagb, Kilronan and Kil- 

rea, 
Killashandra, Kilmacow, Killiney, Killa- 

shee, 
Killenaule, Killmyshall, Killorglin and Kil- 
leagh. 

Leave the little villages, o'er the black seas go. 
Learn the stranger's welcome, learn the exile's 

wofe, 
Leave the little villages, but think not to for- 
get 
Afar they'll rise before your eyes to rack your 
bosoms yet. 
Moneymore, Moneygall, Monivea and Moyne, 
Mullinahone, Mullinavatt, Mullagh and 

Mooncoin, 
Shanagolden, Shanballymore, Stranorlar 

and Slane, 
Toberaheena, Toomyvara, Tempo and Sta- 
bane. 



85 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



On the Southern Llanos, — north where 

strange light gleams, 
Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams 
Dying voices murmur (passed all pain and 

care) 
"Lo! the little Tillages, Grod has heard our 
prayer." 
Lisdoonvarna, Lissadil, Lisdargan, lisnas- 

kea, 
Portglenone, Portarlington, Portumna, Port- 

magee, 
Clonegam and Glonegowan, Oloondara and 

Clonae, 
God bless the little villages and guard them 
night and day! 



86 



II 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



THE SWEET RIVEE SUIR. 

^^: , . . The gentle Shure that making way 
By sweet Clonmelly adorns rich Water fordJ^ 
Spencer^s Faerie Queen, Booh IV, Canto XI. 

From Devil's Bit to Tuurles, from Golden unto 
Cahir, 
By castle-crowned Ardflnan running pure 
Past Carrick and Kilsheelan, ever sparkling, 
evfer wheeling 
Flow the waters of the sweet river Suir. 

The Galtees and Sheveardagh send their trib- 
utes to its flood 
The Anner comes from storied Sliav-na-mon 
The sunshine and the shadows follow fast 
across the meadows 
Till the dews o' the morn are gone. 



87 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



By rich flowery fields of the pleasant golden 
vale 
By broken Norman tower and hamlet white 
The waters of the Suir saddest bosom would 
allure 
As they dance in the sun's mellow light. 

The winds croon and sob thro' ruined abbey 
walls 
Low music floats from every fairy-mound 
And weird, haunting rhymes of long-forgotten 
times 
In the flowing of the Suir resound. 

In cool, sheltered glens where glossy hazels 
nod 
The wild linnet thrills a joyful lay 
The thrush and blackbird singing, sweetest 
melodies are flinging 
Thro' brier-scented groves all day. 

LofC. 



88 



Irish Mist and Sunshine 



^Tis there now I'd be, for my hjeart is ever 
there, 
Where Tippreary and Kilkenny plains 
stretch out 
Where the rival Gaels are dashing, and the 
stalwart hurlers' clashing 
Is heard above the throng's great shout. 

Ah fair is Killarney, where the smile of God is 

seen 
But when this life is ended and dust with duat 
And dear to me thy woodlands Glenmalure 

is blended 
Let me rest by the sweet river Suir. 



89 



I 



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BY NEWTON JOURNAL 
NEWTON, MASS., FOR 
Richard G. Badger A Co 
BOSTON 



jau - 17 leOl 



DEC 20 13; 



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